


Of Amnesia and After-Effects

by Linxcat



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/Linxcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She returns later and sees how small he is, swaddled in duvets; he is only just thirty, taking the shape of a barely teen. She dabs his face with a cool flannel, just as she has done for each of her dear ones, her survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Amnesia and After-Effects

She realises, with a small guilty twinge of favouritism, that she is so very proud of him; more than proud, and the feeling wells up inside of her until she cannot suppress a smile.

As she kneels beside his pallet and sees the stanch limbs and almost yellow pallor of the blood-deprived, she is momentarily concerned by his souless, silent maroon gaze upon her, until his fingers twitch and his eyelids crush closed. She touches the back of her hand to his forehead and he shivers against her.

She decides; he is limp, like a rag doll, like a sleeping toddler, as she gathers him carefully in her arms and releases him from the cell block where he had suffered these last few months. He is weak and almost lifeless, but he is triumphant over his addiction. As she walks the castle corridors and eases him into a four-poster bed, she imagines what he will replace it with and creates a life for him in her mind. The first few months are always the most difficult, so she will keep him close in Uberwald, and then perhaps a soul-searching trip to Genua. Maybe he will fall in love with art, or music, or espionage, or something more simple like coffee or beer. He will do whatever he wishes with the League's connections and her influence, but she will not tell him that - he will have to ask.

She returns later and sees how small he is, swaddled in duvets; he is only just thirty, taking the shape of a barely teen. She dabs his face with a cool flannel, just as she has done for each of her dear ones, her survivors. He opens his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" she murmurs, pushing his dark hair back from his face. He smiles weakly.

"I don't believe it is possible to describe my feelings at this moment without using language that will surely offend you."

She laughs wryly, "One of the pros of being a few centuries old, my dear, is that it is very difficult to shock me."

He hacks and coughs in response, and when he is finished, he frowns down at his hands.

"I don't remember my name," he tells her, "Is that normal?"

She is prepared for this, but cannot ignore the clench to her heart, "A temporary side effect; for your own sanity, your brain is trying to force you to forget the trauma you have experienced. Your memories will return tomorrow, when you wake."

He smiles, and reminds her of another dark haired young man she once knew. "I remember you. You visited me every day and brought me books and water."

"Yes. I look after every member who goes through the purging. I had to go through my own with no comfort," she is oddly embarrassed by how compassionate her explanation is, "I would not wish it upon anyone."

He considers this, then, "You are a woman of near juxtapositions," he studies her face intently and she cannot help but be amused.

"Yes?"

"Distant yet doting. Calm but fast. Sharp yet maternal."

She thinks that perhaps he will do better under Otto, rather than Salacia. There is a place for this boy in the literary world, politics even. He could grow to rival Moist von Lipwig with flowery language like that.

He coughs again, then nurses his temples with his fingers. She touches his shoulder gently.

"Sleep. The worst is over now, you will feel better in the morning."

He obeys, closing his eyes, and at the door she turns back, adding, "You shall have steak tomorrow, and cow's blood for breakfast."

"Cow's blood?" he opens one eye and pulls a face, "Not much of an incentive."

"Some grow to like it."

"Ah, but you do not?"

She is not surprised by his deduction, and smiles, "I abhor it. Now sleep, and I will clacks your father to tell him of your progress."

"My father?" he asks eagerly, mind stretching out desperately for recollections of family, but she closes the bedroom door on his curiosity.

She will use Leonard's unbreakable code to send the message to Havelock, and mix it in with her directions for the Uberwaldian embassy in Ankh-Morpork and the Thud movements. It is the last thing she decides before she wakes up.

Margolotta closed her eyes again, then when she could not reclaim her dream, hugged her knees and allowed herself a minute of pure, uninterrupted grief for the child that never was.

She deduced that it was a combination of, dare she admit it, missing Nutt, and her visit to the Ankh-Morpork League of Temperance headquarters. She ignored the probability that it had sprung from her own fantasies, as no one accomplished anything from crying over impossibilities.

Then she got up, dressed, and went out to face the day.


End file.
